Capabilities
by CourftheCat
Summary: Enjolras was a charming young man who was capable of being terrible. E/R. Rated T for major character death. Modern AU. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

_**Enjolras' POV**_

Floating. Actually floating. On candyfloss clouds, skipping through rainbows with his hand in mine, birdsong filling my ears, and his scent and his wild curls and his red beanie and complete and utter harmony and world peace and… I sound like Jehan. JEHAN. If I am anything at all in the world, a sappy, lovesick poet is not it. But for once, I don't care. Because I love him. I love Raoul Grantaire.

I would say it was all a blur before I met him, before I realised I couldn't live without him, before I loved him with all my heart and mind. But that would be _romantic_, and I wouldn't need Joly to tell me there was something terribly wrong with me. It would also be a lie.

Before Grantaire… life was perfect. I could say that it was too perfect, but that would be a lie. I could say there was something missing, but that would also be a lie. There was me, and Les Amis. Eight of us. Nice, even number. I like even numbers. Just seems more… perfect. Lacking that imperfection. And then…Grantaire happened.

Bahorel brought him in out the rain. Of _course_ it was Bahorel – who else would bring a drunk idiot in off the street simply because he had no one else to beat at drinking contests?

Cynical. How _can_ you describe Grantaire in words other than cynical and drunk? There is nothing else. And yet there is so much more. And I missed it.

Artistic. He always had a notebook under his arm, paint on his hands. He let everyone see. Except me. He never drew people. Except me. I never asked.

Loyal. He would have laid down his life for any one of us in a split second, without a thought. No, he wasn't loyal to the revolution. But he was loyal to me.

Insecure. Something the alcohol hid. Something the alcohol was _for_. Something that not even the best medics could cure. Something I could cure so easily.

A dreamer. Dreams of love and forgiveness and belonging. Something he had only ever dreamt of in his wildest, wildest dreams. Something only I could grant him.

A believer. Of me.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Grantaire's POV**_

Dreams. Reality. I thought there was a difference. A _big_ difference. I'm not sure anymore.

It's strange. He's all I ever wanted. Besides alcohol. I don't want alcohol anymore. I have _him_ now. He helps. He says he loves me. Dream or reality? He says he'll never leave me. Dream or reality? He is the best thing to ever happen to me, but things can only ever be true or false. I've had people love me before. Truly love me, with false love. But maybe he will be different. After all, he is Frederic Enjolras.

What can I possibly say to describe Enjolras? Flawless. Absolutely perfect. No faults. He's the man I strive to be in m fantasies where I am no longer Raoul Grantaire, but someone who actually has a chance in life, someone… not me. In real life, where I am this wreck with no chance in life, my one dream was always Enjolras. Not to be him, but to be noticed by him.

He is Apollo. Glorious as the sun, and just as stubborn. Nothing can take that glint out of his eyes. Does it shine brighter when he looks at me, or is that just my wild imagination?

He is marble. Perfect, unshakeable… deserving of so much more than me. He is an angel, and I am a mere mortal who should not have to bear my burdens.

He is perfect. The perfect man, strong, passionate, beautiful… exactly my opposite. There is no chance for us. Even now we are taking chances for each other, there are no chances.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Enjolras' POV**_

I have been called a great many things in my life. A freedom fighter, a revolutionary, an angel, a god, fearless, marble, Apollo. It never used to bother me that the word 'lover' wasn't on that list. It never needed to be, not in the contexts of the lists of people such as Courfeyrac, but I did love before I loved _him_. I loved, and love, my mother. I loved, and love, France, and Patria. But there was no romance, no star-crossed love that Jehan always seems to be nattering on about. Maybe that's why I love Grantaire. Because it's impossible for someone like _me_ to be in love with someone like _him._

He was drunk. In one of those moods where he would just latch onto you and not let go until drifting off into a dopey sort-of snooze and you'd have to carry him back to your flat for the night, depositing him onto your sofa and leaving him a glass of water and a couple of paracetamol tablets for when he wakes up, because his only other hangover cure is a bottle of vodka, which turned into a pile of vomit decomposing in my sink last time I gave in to him. This routine only ever seems to happen to me. I never seemed to see past the drunken mask.

Waking up is usually a quiet affair in my small flat – it comes with living alone or with the occasional Combeferre. But I was vaguely aware, in my half-asleep state, that someone was going through my fridge. Someone muttering to themselves: "Where is it? Where is it?" and for a brief moment I got the horrified feeling I had Gollum in my house, before remembering Grantaire.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Grantaire's POV**_

I've been called a great many things in my life. A drunkard, a cynic, worthless, Taire (which, contrary to popular belief, is one of my least favourite nicknames – it means 'shut up'). 'Lover' isn't on that list. I never really acknowledged the empty space where that word ought to go. It never seemed like a possibility. I have experienced love before. Not in the same way people such as Joly and Bossuet have love on their lists. But I loved, and love, my sister. I loved my alcohol. But there was no romantic comedy or beautiful, loving people that Musichetta has talked about in the few times I've met her. Maybe that's why I love Enjolras. But it's impossible for someone like _him_ to be in love with someone like _me._

I was hung over. My head felt like it was being sliced open with a lemon, although I'm pretty sure I hadn't been drinking any of that hangalactic gargleblaster stuff. I needed vodka.

I was definitely on a sofa, and not in my own house. Everyone else would have vodka in their fridge (well, except Enj and maybe Jehan), so I decided to get up.

No vodka. No vodka whose fridge is this why would you have a fridge with no vodka in it WHAT IS THIS WORLD. The answer to my question was emerging from his bedroom, his hair curled into places seemingly impossible for someone like him and looking even more half-dead that me. Which takes effort.

"R, what are you -"

"Pollo," I said, standing up straight and looking as sober as I deemed possible when one is not sober, "There is no alcohol in your fridge. As your trusted best friend, I, Raoul Grantaire, have elected myself to fix this problem." I didn't have a clue how I was going to do this with such a migraine, but someone had to help the poor guy.

He pointed over at the sofa, where a glass of water was sat with two paracetamol tablets.

"Freddie, you're amazing." His face fell into a glare at his despised nickname. He grunted something sarcastic about lack of gratitude and trudged off towards the shower. I frowned. "Thanks, Enj, love you Enj!" I slapped my hand over my mouth as soon as I had said it. Courfeyrac tells people he loves them. Jehan tells people he loves them. Cosette tells people she loves them. I do _not_ tell people I love them, unless I'm drunk. Or I mean it. Enjolras turned back to me, the look on his face showing his confirmed suspicions.

"Love you too, R."

Wow.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Enjolras' POV**_

He keeps asking me if I meant it. I'll tell him that of course I meant it, that I love him with all my heart. This will send him into tears, huge, choking sobs into my neck as he clings to me like I'm going to turn to dust if he lets go.

"I love you," he'll say through his tears, "I love you so much, please don't leave me alone, I need you, I love you, I don't know what I'd do without you. _Please_, Frederic." The use of my first name always brings me to the verge of tears. No one ever uses my first name, not even _Combeferre_, unless the situation is critical. So I'll find myself comforting him, running my hand up and down his back, whispering soft words into his ear.

"I'll never leave you, Raoul, I promise. I love you with all my heart, I couldn't ever leave you, R, not even if I wanted to. And I don't want to, Raoul, not ever. He'll sniffle at this point, gather up a lot of courage, probably as much as he can muster, and he'll press a shy, cautious kiss to the corner of my mouth. I'll turn my mouth to catch his and we'll savour the kiss for a couple of seconds. He'll pull away, choking back a sob and pulling me back into a hug. I won't be able to resist tangling my fingers into his dark locks, burying my face in after them, inhaling his sweet, Raoulish smell – paints, Earl Grey tea (because he doesn't survive on _just_ alcohol) and the Lynx Apollo spray he uses simply to annoy me, or (as he puts it), to smell like me. I could live forever on this smell. Just to know he's definitely there.

"Don't leave me," he'll murmur. I do understand why he's so insecure. He's not used to consistency.

_**No one's POV**_

His parents split up when he was two years old and his father insisted on having him for a month a year (at least). His mother was too terrified to deny him, even when Raoul came home covered in cuts and bruises. He showed me the scars along his arms, numerous and permanent, a reminder of his cowardice, he said. He went away to summer camp one year and came home to find a gory death story plastered on every news board he laid eyes on. ELODIE GRANTAIRE BRUTALLY MURDERED BY EX-HUSBAND.

He went into care then, met Stéphane. He'd been through a lot. His parents died when he was three years old and he'd been in care ever since. He stayed in a foster home with a waiter once, who taught him to make swans out of napkins. He found himself back at the care home, for reasons he wouldn't mention, and set himself the task of passing on the technique of swan-making onto the small kids of the care home. R still teases him today, and I still find little paper swans blessing the household.

No one was completely sure how R managed to get himself into drugs, but that led to prison and rehab soon after. When he made a real attempt to get away from drugs and his crowd of Patron-Minette and Parnasse's girlfriend Éponine, who tagged along for reasons unspoken, but obviously because she'd get beaten if she didn't (she didn't take much effort in hiding the cuts, bruises and burns all over her body), R was moved on to weekly visits from an ex-convict known as M. Fauchelevant and his daughter Cosette, who was about the same age as Ponine. The latter was also trying to get a new start, and she and R were soon out of rehab. Éponine seemed happier about leaving Parnasse than rehab. In all honesty, R didn't blame her.

From there, Grantaire abandoned the house the rehab centre helped him into and began to live on the streets, begging for money with which he bought his much-needed alcohol (he wasn't ever going down the drug route again). He was sat on the roadside one day, considering the pros and cons of getting a Staffie to help him beg and keep him together in the times he needed hope more than anything, when a man sat next to him.

"So this is the life of Raoul Grantaire? If being badass is this great, you can keep it."

"I don't need your words of wisdom, Stéphane." So Stéphane handed R a €20 note, took his words of wisdom and left.

"If you ain't gonna use that, m'sieur…" Grantaire looked up to see a small boy with a cheeky half-grin on his face.

"No chance." But R took the boy (whose name turned out to be Gavroche) to a little Costa to get some cake and coffee, or strawberry lemonade in Grantaire's case. R stared confusedly at the look of concentration on Gav's face for a while, before the boy proudly held up a napkin swan. "Where did you learn that?" R asked.

"My friend Feuilly taught me to do it," he replied happily. R didn't see Gavroche for a long time after that.

It wasn't every day that people sat down next to Grantaire and offered them houses, but Léon Bahorel was looking for a flat mate and 'he was as good as any other random stranger'. And it was raining. So that was sorted.

Pub once a week with Léon, where R managed to get covered in drink by some bald guy muttering about apologies and luck. He introduced himself as: Emilien Lesgles, The Unluckiest Man Alive. R commented that at least he wasn't covered in beer.

He ran into Éponine a few weeks later, who was joined by a blond guy with glasses. She looked happier than Grantaire had seen her in a long time, and for that R was grateful to the man.

"Nico, this is Grantaire," she told the guy. He used to be friends with Montparnasse, before rehab." The name brought a scowl to the man's features. But then, _that_ name did that to everyone. "Grantaire, this is my boyfriend, Nicolas." She talked about how she was no longer in touch with Parnasse or Patron-Minette, to which R commented: "Good on you." He bid goodbye after a bit of catch-up with Ép and suspicious glances from Nicolas which were making him paranoid.

Bahorel insisted on dragging Grantaire to art classes, claiming that was amazing how he could just draw anything on napkins or skin or paper or bags, but R knew it was really because of the live model Bahorel thought completely gorgeous. Her name was Musichetta Gamdet, and to Bahorel's sheer disappointment, she was already taken, twice, by a Bossuet and a Pierre, who would occupy most of her speech. R found himself wishing for that kind of love, whereas Bahorel went completely off art (nothing to do with 'that Gamdet chick' being taken) and quit the art classes. This left R to attempt to not socialise, and run into Stéphane once more.

"Gone off badass-ness, then," he smiled warmly, genuinely. R rolled his eyes.

"I thought I told you to leave me alone," he growled. Stéphane shrugged and walked away.

"You made Gav quite happy," he called back. R thought about this for a long time, before deciding that the Gavroche kid just knew everyone in the country and thought nothing more of it.

_I want you back. _Grantaire knew who 'I' was. He was so disgusted that he would even hope, even _expect_, him to forgive him for what he did all those years ago. She loved him, but love turned to fear and fear to death. And he should know that hell would freeze over permanently before he could find the capacity in his heart to even consider forgiveness. Nowhere to turn. No one to go to. His only commiseration was alcohol. He drowned himself in the cheap vodka he could afford and before long he was dependent on at least one bottle of some form of alcohol a day. Alcohol just seemed to be one of those things that were part of him, whether he liked it or not. He hated and loved the alcohol as he hated and loved himself.

How he managed to keep this from Léon was beyond him, especially when his flat mate (he wasn't quite a friend yet) noticed his difference in behaviour. He kept questioning R, receiving only _I'm fine!_s, the subtext being "I'M NOT FINE HELP ME!" He was walking round the flat one day (following the distinctive smell of vomit) and opened R's door (forbidden to him for reasons obvious to the reader). He was met by piles of vodka bottles, a ridiculously strong stench of vomit, and a very unconscious Grantaire. How had Léon not noticed? How could Grantaire really live like this? There was only one thing for it, and R would probably resent him for the rest of his days. Hospital.

When Grantaire awoke, he was quite definitely _not _in his own room. This was evident by the lack of vodka bottles and vomit. He groggily looked around at the two men in the corner. It took a few moments for him to recognise one of them as Bahorel, and the other as a doctor. Darn it.

The doctor noticed his consciousness first. He got up, walked over to the bed and knelt beside it.

"Monsieur Grantaire," he began solemnly, "My name is Joly. I am your doctor while you recover from your…" he paused a moment, trying to find the right word. "Ordeal." Grantaire made a sad excuse for a snort and Joly continued, unshaken. "There was a great deal of alcohol in your system, and I'm afraid that we had to pump your stomach." Well that explained the burning sensation in his throat. "You're going to have to stay in hospital over 72 hours for an observation before we let you go." R groaned. He hated hospitals. They smelt of old people and they only served whole milk and no alcohol and he always had that feeling that they could have saved her, if they'd just tried harder, if they'd just had more time. He knew that they could not have saved her unless she only had one stab wound to her shoulder instead of multiple stab wounds to her stomach. But he still hated them for it, an irrational hate he would never overcome. He _hated_ hospitals.

Grantaire like Joly a whole lot more when he told him he was free to go. Three days with no alcohol was harder than expected, but his substitute was ridiculously dark chocolate. The bitterness reminded him of the vodka he was trying so hard to avoid, and it was something that his body wouldn't throw up (eventually). He took to eating oranges on off days. They tasted the same going down as they did coming up. He told this to Joly once, who immediately commented that he felt sick, to which R replied happily, "Here, have an orange." Grantaire eventually went off oranges and, feeling sick one day, bought himself a Terry's chocolate orange, hoping it would work in the same way. After spending about an hour breaking it into pieces small enough for his body to bring up without too much hassle, he found that chocolate oranges did _not _have the same effect, and promptly found himself once again loving oranges.

Art. Grantaire loved art. Flowers and death and heaven and hell and everything to do with art. Especially Van Gogh. He tried to bring an element of his idol into every piece of artwork he created , in amongst the pieces of himself. If people didn't try to add artists to their own art or let them influence them in some way, how does the artist stay alive? Art is about creation – you can stare at a painting on a wall all your life, but creating something around that painting – that is _art._

Sunflowers. Van Gogh painted sunflowers. Grantaire loved painting sunflowers. They had a sense of identity to them – they needed detail to be a sunflower, or they would just be a plant. And Grantaire needed identity and detail more than anything. Maybe if he painted detail and identity, he would find it within himself and maybe, just maybe, he could be somebody.

There were sunflowers in the Luxembourg. Beautiful sunflowers that towered towards the sky like they were reaching for the sun god. Apollo. He loved that name. The way it rolled off his tongue, the way it sounded in the air, the way you can just say it over and over again and it just gets more beautiful. Maybe he could find his Apollo one day, maybe if he painted it with his detail and identity then they would all come at once. It was stupid, but someone as hopeless as him had to put hope in something.

There was someone on his bench. _His_ bench. A girl. No, a young man, with very long gingery hair. Within his hair was a fish plait and several daisies within the fish plait. He would love to paint that. Maybe he would one day. The boy (on further inspection, R found that he couldn't have been more than eighteen years old) was sat furiously writing something on a notepad. Grantaire cleared his throat. The boy looked up and smiled.

"Mind if I sit?" R asked.

"Go for it," the boy replied, putting a lid on his pen and stretching out his hand. "My name's Prouvaire," he said, "Jean Prouvaire. Most people call me Jehan." Grantaire reluctantly returned the handshake.

"Grantaire." Jehan stared at him expectantly for a few seconds.

"Is there a first name to go with that?" R sighed.

"Raoul," he said after a few moments' hesitation. "But no one calls me Raoul. People call me… drunkard." Jehan frowned.

"Why?" Grantaire gestured to himself and Jehan furrowed his brow. "You don't look like someone who would drink." R laughed bitterly at the boy's innocence.

"How can you determine someone's habits from their looks?" he asked. "You can't look at three men and declare one a drunk, one a drug addict and one about to commit suicide." Jehan moved his head from side to side, weighing the words on the scales in his mind.

"Fair point."

"What were you writing?"

"Poetry."

"Can I see?"

"It's not done yet." He gestured to the easel under Grantaire's arm. "What's that?"

"A painting."

"Can I see?"

"It's not done yet." Jehan smiled softly. It wasn't often that R smiled back genuinely at people, but he couldn't help it. Jehan just looked like one of those people you bump into on the street who have You Got A Friend In Me as their own personal background music.

"I've seen you before," Jehan said spontaneously. Grantaire would soon learn that Jean Prouvaire was a very spontaneous person. "But I'm not sure where." He scowled in concentration for a moment, before his face lit up. "You're friends with Bahorel!" Grantaire cringed at the word. He wasn't a _friend_ yet.

"Léon? Yeah, I'm his flat mate."

"You should come down some time," he said happily, "To the Musain. Well, if you have political views. Or even if you don't. You'll definitely have political views by the time Enj is finished with you. We meet on Thursdays in the back room. We'd be happy to have you. Anyway, I have to go. See you round, Grantaire!" Grantaire lifted a hand in response and looked down at his easel. _Did political views make someone a somebody? More than sunflowers did? _Grantaire had never actually acknowledged before that there could be more to making someone a somebody than sunflowers.

Another thing that Grantaire loved was dancing. Grantaire was a different person when he danced. He signed up to dance classes once a week and was paired up with a man called Vien. Well, Vivien really, but people kept calling him Vivian and he didn't like it. Vivien Courfeyrac. He was a very energetic person, but changed into a calm, subdued gentleman when dancing. Grantaire liked Courfeyrac straight away. He was like a dog, always ridiculously happy and excited or ridiculously calm – out of sadness or simply seriousness. It was good for Grantaire because Courf knew the exact thickness of the boundary line and how to tiptoe along it but never actually fall into the abyss of having gone too far. And it was this skill that meant Grantaire could be friends with Courfeyrac, actually friends. There was no crossing of any lines and no arguments and this was why they got on. And Grantaire trusted him. Which definitely meant something. He hadn't trusted anyone since his mother.

Snow Patrol. Bahorel had got Grantaire Snow Patrol tickets. Well, _ticket_. Bahorel detested Snow Patrol, although Grantaire could never understand why. So he was going to see his favourite band on his own. But he didn't mind. Raoul Grantaire is the cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to him.

R hummed Run all the way to the concert. The taxi driver seemed less than impressed but kept quiet, because the customer is always right.

It was quite an intimate gig, only about a hundred people in total, and Grantaire felt claustrophobic. Had there been half a thousand people in that small space he wouldn't have felt nearly so paranoid. Grantaire hated intimate places with small amounts of people who he might have to socialise with. Like silly, freckly boys with silly, gelled-up hair landing on you in the middle of a nice song like Crack The Shutters.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I just… I was pushed and… are you alright?" there was blood on his lips, but that was from putting his red hand to his face.

"I'm fine, no thanks to you," he growled.

"Sorry, it's just those men pushed me." He pointed to two guys mucking around with bottles in their hands. "They're drunk," he added.

"Oh, yeah, blame the drunkard," he spat bitterly, before remembering that he didn't even drink anymore. "Sorry, it's not your fault. I'm Grantaire, by the way." Maybe playing nice was a good idea.

"Marius," he smiled brightly, shaking R's hand, the past anger seemingly forgotten. "You like Snow Patrol?"

"That's why I'm here."

"Oh. Right. Of course." Marius laughed nervously. Was he… afraid? R could be unpleasant when he wanted to be, but he never wanted this guy to be scared of him. What _did_ he want? Friendship? Not fear, that was certain.

"Sorry," Grantaire said quietly. "I'm just a little touchy on the subject of alcohol. I shouldn't be – I don't even drink anymore, but… I'm not trying to be horrible, I just am."

"You're not horrible," Marius assured him, "You surely can't be horrible _and _like Snow Patrol – Snow Patrol does good, calm music. And horrible people don't generally give up alcohol." The boy was attentive.

"It depends on the horrible person," Grantaire replied. Their conversation went on like this for some time, until the concert ended. Grantaire offered Marius a coffee at Costa's, once again taking a strawberry lemonade for himself, and Marius offered Grantaire a lift home. R wasn't sure whether Marius was a _friend_ yet, but they exchanged numbers and went their separate ways. Grantaire was growing fond of Marius, with his clumsiness and his awkwardness. He was almost like the younger brother he never had, and it gave Raoul the feeling that family could be an option after so many years of solitude.

"Grantaire, it's raining," Bahorel groaned, "And the bus is delayed, and you can easily see if it's coming from the café, so why don't you come in for a bit? Might do you some good to socialise a bit." R made a noise of objection in his throat. He hated socialising and he hated being mothered, and he hated the rain and he hated delayed buses. And he remembered the Musain from meeting Jehan, so he decided that it was perhaps good for him.

Following Léon into the back room of the Musain, he saw him clasp hands and sit next to… Stéphane? Stéphane Feuilly? Bahorel knew Stéphane Feuilly? Looking around, he noticed other familiar faces. Éponine was sat with Nicolas, talking to the little Gavroche kid like she was his mother or sister or something. Emilien Lesgles, The Unluckiest Man Alive, talking with the Gamdet chick and Joly the doctor. Courfeyrac and Jehan sharing a chair, their fingers intertwined. Marius was sat with headphones in, bobbing his head absentmindedly, holding a… was that a handkerchief? Close to his chest. But who was that? A man at the back, looking reserved. R had never seen anyone like him. He looked like Apollo himself in all his glory. And he stared back at Grantaire, into his very soul. He was perfect.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Grantaire's POV**_

Who was he? I knew every single person in that room except the one I wanted to know the most (no offense, guys). I must have been gaping at him a while, because the others around me caught on quite quickly.

"Have you not met Enj yet?" Courf asked. His head was resting on Jehan's shoulder, the latter absentmindedly running his hands through Courf's dark hair. I shook my head. It was at that point that the man came over to where we were standing. He looked me up and down, as if a man's looks can define their political awareness, before meeting my eyes once more.

"Do I know you?" he asked coldly.

"I'm Grantaire," I replied. "Raoul Grantaire. But don't call me Raoul." I paused a moment before awkwardly shaking his hand.

"Enjolras," he replied. "Frederic Enjolras. But don't call me Freddie. I take it you're here to join Les Amis de l'ABC?"

"No."

"Oh." Enjolras was thrown for a moment. "Why are you here then?"

"My bus is delayed and I don't like rain," I replied simply. "I won't be any trouble. I don't drink anymore."

"Well I don't see why you can't stay," Enjolras smiled. "Maybe we can make an Ami out of you yet." I tried to hide the cringe. I didn't do _Amis_.

I found it quite an interesting night once I was past the "we're going to overthrow the king! Woohoo!" and enthusiasm of the people around me. I think I provided most of the comic relief for that meeting. Especially when Enjolras started talking about revolution and killing King Louis-whatshisface the umpteenth, to which I responded:

"Great idea! Who needs a king? No king, no king, la la la la la la!" after observing the looks of the people around me, I fell into self-conscious mode. "Don't judge me for being able to quote Lion King! Disney was my childhood!" Enjolras didn't seem too impressed by this.

"Grantaire?" I turned round to face Enjolras. "Can I have a word?" I shrugged.

"Sure, what's up?"

"I am aware that you do not share ambitions with the rest of Les Amis, but -"

"Woah woah woah, hold it, sun god." Enjolras pulled a face. "Who says I don't share your ambitions?"

"Er… you did."

"I never said that," I said, shaking my head. "I merely said it was impossible. Which, by the way, Goldilocks, it is. That doesn't mean I stand beside King Louis-Pierre -"

"Philippe."

"The one-hundred-and-eleventy-oneth -"

"First."

"Could you stop interrupting me for one second and listen?! It's like this, Fred – we've got a stupid king with a name way too original for a king of France, what with having just had Louis the eighty-ninth -"

"Eighteenth."

"Close enough, and I'll just pretend you didn't interrupt me. So this Louis-Philippe dude, he doesn't bat an eyelid at anyone unless they're bourgeois, so none of the homeless really stand a chance. You want to change that. I salute you, girl, I really do – it's a really noble cause to lose your life for but it's not going to end with the overthrow of King Originality, so _why bother_? You could do so much with your life, Freddie, but you would throw it all away in a second for a lost cause. And so would your little boy band, which I'm joining by the way, but what happens when nothing happens? When you're all dead? People will say: 'Oh, remember little Frederic, dying because he really thought he could barricade the king off the throne?' You could be so much more, Enjolras! Take it."

Wrong. I was so wrong.

"Was storming the Bastille pointless too, Grantaire? I will tell you this right now, Raoul – everything is a lost cause, every challenge everyone ever faces is a lost cause and it's pointless and people will die for no reason. Do you know how we fix this, Raoul? We find the cause. We find the cause and we fight for it to the end because we know that no one ever dies in vain, no one is ever truly forgotten. There's always one person who remembers. And the cause is lost and it's down to that person to find it. Remember the French Revolution? That cause has been lost because people died. And that cause was passed down to us, to find it, and from us to our successors and so on until the cause is won. And we will win, Grantaire. Just wait and see. We will beat the tyrant."


	7. Chapter 7

_**Enjolras' POV**_

How? Why? What?

How did I fall in love with him? Why did I fall in love with him?

"_Thanks, Enj, love you, Enj!"_

"_Love you too, R."_

What was I thinking to tell him?

"He's so completely not my type, it's not right, he's my complete opposite, why do I feel like this towards him? It's not right, it's not _natural_! Courfeyrac, stop laughing!"

"It's perfectly natural!" Combeferre reassures me. "Look at me and Ponine. Love is natural, Enj. But I suggest you go to Jehan about this if you want any more advice. He knows more than I do."

XXXXX

"Opposites attract!"

"Wha…" Jehan rolled his eyes.

"Really, Fred? When Ferre said you were a little new to the topic, I didn't expect you to be quite so green!" he sighs. "You _need_ a polar opposite, not a mirror image. Maybe you need someone not as passionate as you, and R needs someone not quite so cynical, to make balance, to complete you." I nod, starting to get my head this love thing now. "I'm so happy you finally got it, though!"

"What?"

"R's been with Les Amis for almost a year now, and you've only just noticed him noticing you. You have to tell him somewhere nice – ooh, that restaurant he likes."

"You mean Subway?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Hmm, I see the problem." Jehan's face lights up. "Take him dancing!" I feel the blood draining from my face.

"Jehan, I can't dance. I have two left feet."

"So learn," he says simply. Everything is simple with Jehan. "Even if you're rubbish at it, he'll appreciate the effort. He doesn't want perfection, Enj, he wants _you_. Give him that and he'll be the happiest guy to ever have walked the planet."

XXXXX

Dancing is going well. I've mastered the foxtrot (Grantaire's favourite dance) and I thought that maybe if I'm ready, I'll ask him to the summer ball.

I'm not ready. Of course I'm going – Courf and I are taking Marius and Cosette separately as plus ones and hooking them up. Grantaire's busy tonight anyway, according to my anonymous source (Courfeyrac). Shopping. This confused me, considering he _always_ does shopping online.

XXXXX

Walking through the crowds at the party, Marius sees me and Cosette. He turns bright red. Perfect. And then I see Courf talking to another man. Was that… no. No, it couldn't be. It was.

Grantaire.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Grantaire's POV  
**_

Marius sees Cosette and goes a perfect shade of red. Laughing with Courf, I absentmindedly look up at the love birds and see a man I honestly never could have expected.

"Enjolras?!" he looks like a deer in headlights. "What are you doing here? Surely you're not Cosette's plus one?"

"I, er… no, I'm having lessons."

"Why?"

"To, um… impress someone."

"Who?"

"Um… er, Courfeyrac!" I think I've been kicked in the stomach. I'm going to throw up. _Enjolras_ likes _Courfeyrac_? I… I need to keep calm.

"If you end Courf and Jehan I end you." Nice one, R. No one gets between Courf and Jehan. Enj looks like he's going to die.

"No no no, different Courfeyrac!" he turns red as a rose and I find myself feeling ill once more as I realise that, not only will he not be mine, I have to watch him with some other guy? I can't handle this. "You don't know him," he adds this as if it will make me feel better.

"What's his first name?"

"R… R…" _Raoul?_ "Robert!" I can't stop my face from falling.

"Oh." I turn away. "Good luck with him." I begin to walk away when I hear him call my name in a desperation I would call love if I hadn't just had that conversation.

"Grantaire, wait!" he grabs my arm and I feel it, just for a second, like I'm wanted, like life might work, like I've found love, like I might just be happy. And then it's about _him_ again, as if I don't despise the guy already.

"R, his… his name isn't Robert Courfeyrac…" I sigh, trying to meet his eyes. He won't look at me. "His… his name is… Raoul… Raoul Grant…" the rest dies in his throat but I didn't need to hear it. He meant me. Me. And he's disappeared once more, leaving me to take it what's just been said to me.

_Raoul Grantaire. That's my name. My name. He meant me. Raoul Grantaire. Me. Me._


	9. Chapter 9

_**Enjolras' POV**_

"Why did I just do that? Why didn't I just tell him straight up? I'm such an idiot! He thinks I fancy _you_!" Courfeyrac shrugs.

"At least you have good taste."

"He probably thinks I'm a coward now too. Or that it was just a prank. I'm so stupid!"

"Go talk to him," Combeferre tells me. "He'll understand, Enjolras, and you know it."

"Do I?"

"Freddie, we saw everything," Courf says as he drapes his arm over my shoulder. "Did you not see his face when you told him about impressing your 'Robert Courfeyrac'?" I frown.

"No," I mumble. Courfeyrac begins to bang his head against my shoulder. "Ow."

"You are the most oblivious person I have ever met, Enj," he sighs. "Just go talk to him."

"I can't," I whine, looking at my feet. "I'll make a fool out of myself."

"Oh, because you haven't already done that?" Courf raises an eyebrow and receives a whack round the back of the head from Ferre. "Ouch!"

"I'm going to get a drink," I said, wondering in the opposite direction of the drink stall. I sit down on a bench and hope no one will come to talk to me. I watch Marius and Cosette dancing for a little while, but the thought of never having that now makes me look away.

My watch bleeps nine o'clock. Home time.

"Do you permit a dance?" I look up to see the man I never expected.

"G… Grantaire…" I stammer. He takes my hands and leads me over to the dance floor. I recognise the song playing as Taylor Swift – Love Story. I have a soft spot for this song and I find myself blushing like mad when the DJ calls out that this song is "for Enjolras, with love". How did he know?

"How did I know, right?" Grantaire smirks, but I think I already know the answer to this question. Courfeyrac. Why do I trust him with this information?

I've heard many people say that dancing is like flying when you're with the right person. I get this from Courf and Jehan a lot. I always used to roll my eyes and tell them to grow up and stop being sappy around me, but I believe them now. I am dancing with Grantaire, and I am flying.

The dancing came to an end and Grantaire's eyes meet mine. I eventually manage to tear my eyes away from his, but they just end up looking at his lips, which is hardly better. I look back up at him. He needs to hear this sincerely. He needs to see it in my eyes, and I need to see it in his.

"I'm quite sure I love you, Raoul."

"Good." I used to think it stupid when people said sparks flew when you kissed your soulmate. But it's not stupid. It's true.

**Hello lovely readers! First of all, thanks to all of you guys who are reading. **

**This is just to say that I'm going on holiday so there won't be any updates for a couple of weeks. I'm not ditching the fic. Thanks **


	10. Chapter 10

**Hey people I'm back! I survived Italy! And I got more of the fic done than I expected to… wow. **

**This chapter's basically just fluff, but I was in one of those moods so… here it is!**

_**Grantaire's POV**_

_I'm quite sure I love you, Raoul._ The words still echo in my head as if it was all just a dream. My mind plays it over and over, but it sounds more like fantasy every time. My head holds all that doubt, keeping the rest of my body from being certain of his love. But my soul keeps me in check, reflecting every moment from the pain of 'Robert Courfeyrac' to the point where his mouth met mine. The feeling still lingers on my lips, making sure I definitely know it was real.

It's been a month since that night. Sure it's been rough and (no, not like _that_) we have our heated arguments, but that's always going to happen. Enjolras has his fiery passion and I have my dousing cynicism, but we resolve the conflicts and move on, remembering only each other and the good times. It's all people have in the end, the good times.

Enjolras has been ecstatic ever since I 'graduated' from dark to milk chocolate on my road to a completely alcohol-free life. He keeps saying that it's cause for celebration, but honestly, I'd rather keep it a quiet affair. Like that's ever going to happen.

It doesn't take long for Combeferre to notice (we may not see eye-to-eye but there's not much that guy doesn't pick up on) and of course Courf has decided he's throwing the party. Jehan and Cosette bake the massive cake that reads _Congrats R!_ So much for that quiet affair. We all indulge in non-alcoholic ginger beer, which is the nearest thing to alcohol I'll touch these days. Enjolras stays with me the whole night, constantly telling me he loves me more than anything in the world, even _Patria_, and that he's so proud that I've come so quickly. I spend the majority of the night cuddling with him on Courf and Jehan's sofa, leaning into his chest and playing with the curls I can be bothered to touch.

I know I'm falling asleep when I find myself patting Enjolras' nose (he's got a really nice nose, okay) several times. My hand lands on his face and stays there long enough for him to be able to plant a soft kiss on my palm, making me smile sleepily.

"Home time," he says sternly, but amusement lines his voice.

"K, Pollo. Love you."

"Love you too, R." Enjolras makes a few quick thank yous and goodbyes, some on my behalf, which I would be perfectly capable of making myself, thank you very much. He picks me up off the sofa. I'm vaguely aware of him carrying me back to the car, but I've got much more important things to think about, like how the button on his polo shirt says _George_ but should really say _Enjolras_.

He spends five or so minutes trying to get me to sit up enough for him to do up my seatbelt. When he succeeds (ish), he presses a soft kiss to my lips, which I return in a rather sloppy fashion. He leans back and I take his arm, pulling him on top of me, earning an 'oof' and an ear to murmur into.

"Freddie," I moan, wrapping my arms around his waist, "Not goin' nowhere." He laughs and kisses my cheek.

"R, we have to go home now." I'm positive he's making a mental note to never _ever_ give me ginger beer again.

"Pollo just sleep here," I mumble, "Not goin' nowhere." I place a slobbery kiss to his ear and nuzzle his cheek with my nose.

"R, I'm half-way out the car." Is shrug and somehow manage to drag the rest of him into the car, undoing my seatbelt and closing the door. I shift, allowing him to sit next to me, before climbing into his lap and curling up against his chest like a cat, listening to his beautiful heart beat and finding great amusement in his chin (hey, Frederic Enjolras has a great chin).

"Freddie not goin' nowhere," I state again, before allowing my eyelids to close and falling asleep instantly.


	11. Chapter 11

_**Enjolras' POV**_

"So," the voice begins in an excruciatingly taunting tone, "You and your followers -"

"Friends," I growl.

"You and your _followers_ have been secretly plotting against our beloved Louis-Philippe -" he pauses as I snort, "And you have refused to give us even a hint of those followers' identities or their whereabouts. This appears to have put you in a rather vulnerable position, although you would not see it in this way yet. Do you understand how we operate, Monsieur Enjolras? Do you know what happens to those who deny what we ask, those who disobey? We _make_ them obey. By means of painful torture. A bullet in your shoulder, your leg, maybe an electric shock, you understand the idea. But you are a challenging specimen, Monsieur Enjolras. You would resist that torture, for the sake of your followers and your precious revolution – really, I find it very moving. But your followers, they are a different game. They will break, and in doing so will torture you into submission. What if we were to find ourselves one of those followers, Monsieur? Would you then submit?" Who? Who is it? None of them would get caught, none of them would try to save me, not alone. Surely…

The doors are violently opened to reveal a blindfolded man, two men struggling to restrain him. And suddenly I know who it is.

"NO! Grantaire!" I can't stop myself from desperately trying to get to him, whimpering in fear of the horrible, torturous things they have planned for him in their sick minds. They push him to the ground and I glimpse a tattoo on his back. _VIVE LE FRANCE_. Grantaire has only one other tattoo, he told me it hurt almost as much as the many scars along his arms, and he would never get another, not if he was offered the world. I hate to think of him going through all that pain for a cause he didn't even believe in.

Suddenly my bonds are cut and I'm running to him, yanking off the blindfold. He looks at me a moment, stunned, before we wrap our arms around each other.

"Raoul, I was so scared," I murmur, hoping with my entire soul he was the only person to hear that. He runs his hand up and down my back like he always does when I'm upset.

"Shh… it's okay, Frederic, no one's going to hurt you." I attempt to choke back tears but a couple escape, and I pray and pray that they don't see the pain, the hope, the fear, the despair, the _love_. But they see it, they see it all. And then he's gone from my arms, I'm gone from his and bound once more. Raoul is again restrained, and out of nowhere there's a knife and blood and pain and Grantaire's blood and Grantaire's pain and someone's screaming their lungs out and it's me and I just can't take it I can't see him like this I can't handle it it's too much and they're going to kill him I'm sure of it and there's nothing I can do to save him and no no NO he's gone limp and

"Frederic, wake up!" I'm covered in sweat, breathing in heavy gasps, and staring into the eyes of… Raoul. How…?

"Raoul…" I murmur, immediately checking his wrists for cuts, his arms, his chest his stomach, his neck, for blood, his face for pain. And there's nothing, no cuts, no blood, no pain, just Raoul and he's not dead and, "Raoul…" and I'm crying into his chest, huge, choking sobs that would never normally come from me. He runs his hand up and down my back like he always does when I'm upset.

"Shh… it's okay, Frederic, no one's going to hurt you." The sentence makes my breath hitch and I look around to check there are no sick, twisted men to take him away from me again. There's no one, but I hold onto him tightly just in case. I can't, _won't_, lose him again.

"Don't let them take you, Raoul, don't let them torture you, I'm not worth it."

"What do you mean?"

"_Please_, Raoul, just do that for me. Promise."

"I promise." I warily look around. We're in the car. It's not a prison cell. We're still sharing a seat, only it's now me on his lap. My arms are still wrapped round his torso protectively and he's still rubbing my back.

"Just don't come after me, Raoul," I murmur, "I don't want you to die."

He drives us home, gets us a drink, makes me go to bed and try to get to sleep. The images still haunt my mind, and after about five minutes of _not_ trying to get to sleep, I get up and go to the sofa, to Raoul, and snuggle into him, into the safety of his arms.

It won't happen. It _can't_ happen. Not to Raoul, not to any of Les Amis. I will die alone, and that way no one gets hurt.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Grantaire's POV**_

I can cook.

This comes to me as quite a revelation, because I've never been good at anything remotely house-wifey, unless you count art. And even that's a lost cause. But Enjolras is being more cuddly than usual after last night's events, not letting me out of his sight. Well, not until I manage to distract him with some kids' TV show about plasticine cats called Meow and Mow. He's completely hooked. I see he's got his priorities straight.

This becomes my soul chance to eat, and the only things in the fridge are vegetables. Darn. The first thought that comes to my mind is _how bad can it really be?_ and I make soup. When I return to the sofa, Enjolras is asleep, snuffling like a piglet. I don't want to wake him, but he's sprawled across the whole sofa and I want to sit down. I put my bwl on the table and brush a couple of stray hairs out of his face. He opens his eyes and smiles sleepily.

"Morning," he mumbles, managing to sit up just enough for me to slide underneath him before he flops back down onto my shoulder. He reaches over and dips a finger into my soup, tasting it and smiling. I wrap my arms round his waist.

"Evening," I correct him with a teasing smile. He picks up the bowl of soup and takes a spoonful.

"This is good," he compliments, twisting round to plant a kiss to my lips, allowing me only a tiny sample of my creation.

"You know what else it is? Mine." He looks up at me with such adorable puppy eyes that I almost melt. "Fine, but you're going to get up a sec." He groans and reluctantly sits up enough for me to get up and get myself a bowl of soup from the kitchen. When I get back we sit and watch a kids' show about some girl called Maggie and a pig called Hamilton and a 'Ferocious Beast'. It's surprisingly (and worryingly) entertaining.

"Enjolras," I say quietly, completely _not_ certain about the question about to escape my lips.

"Yeah?"

"What was your dream about?" his face clouds over and he looks at his now empty bowl.

"I really don't want to talk about it."

"It might help," I encourage. He shakes his head.

"I don't want to relive it, Raoul. I want to forget it." I nod, understanding. I felt the same way when people first started asking about my past. These things take time.

"Okay," I smile at him, rubbing his cheek with my thumb, "I won't make you tell me. But if you ever do want to talk, Frederic, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Not ever." He wraps his arms around my neck and I return the hug.

"Thanks, Raoul. You're the best." I kiss his neck lightly. Then… "They hurt you." I tighten my hold around him, making sure he definitely knows I'm here. "They hurt you a lot, Raoul, and it was all because they couldn't get through to me with physical pain. I couldn't stop it, Raoul, but I tried. I tried so hard, but I was just so helpless and I couldn't do anything and -" he chokes back a sob. "They killed you, Raoul. Right in front of me. You died…"

"Shh… it's okay, that's enough for today. You did great, Frederic, you don't have to tell me anymore if you don't want to."

"Please don't die, Raoul. _Please_…"

"I won't. I promise."


	13. Chapter 13

_**Enjolras' POV**_

Why did I do that? What was I thinking? He hates me, and I don't blame him one bit – why did I say that, _how_ could I have said that?

It's been six months since the nightmare, and everything's been perfect. I love Raoul more than anything else in the world, and although seven months isn't very long to have been going out for something as big as this, but I'm so sure, and I thought and thought and asked Combeferre because I ask him about _everything_ and I asked Bahorel and Feuilly because they're closest to him, and they all agree that now is the time and I should ask him.

I'm an organised person. Everything has to be as perfect as it can be, and until it is I stress. I've always been like that, and I have the sickening feeling it's the way I'll always be. I yell at people who don't deserve it, and also people who probably _do_ deserve it. I say everything I absolutely _don't_ mean and everything comes crumbling down. And everything wasn't to perfection and I was stressing like the universe was going to explode. And the worst part is that Grantaire was right in the firing line and he was the least deserving person for me to be yelling at and he really shouldn't have been in that position but he was and now everything's falling down and it's no one's fault but mine.

"_Hey, Pollo, what cha doing?"_

"_Just trying to think."_

"'_Bout what?"_

"_Look, R, can you just give me some space to breathe? I'm in a really bad mood and I don't want to yell at you."_

"_So don't yell." Everything's always so simple with Grantaire. He sits next to me, putting an arm round my waist and kissing my cheek. "C'mon, Enj, what's wrong? And don't say nothing, because we both know that's not true. I know your worried face when I see it. You can tell me, you know. If something's wrong, I can help." And everything crumbles when he kisses my cheek again and pulls me closer, because I push him away._

"_For heaven's sake, Grantaire!" I stand up, looking down on him as if he's not worthy to look me in the eye, which, my mind tells me in that moment, he isn't. "I'm trying to get stuff done and you're not helping, you're just getting in the way like you always do, so just get out and leave me alone!" the pain is horribly evident on his face and for a second my mind says 'good'. "Sometimes, Grantaire, I swear you're just trying to get under my skin for the fun of it! Why can't you just go and find someone else to annoy out of their mind for five minutes, because it's starting to really get on my nerves. I'm sick of it, Grantaire, and I'm sick of __**you**__." __He stands up and walks out the room._

"_Well, if that's how you feel," he growls. I hear the front door slam and I'm suddenly all alone. He's just letting off steam, I tell myself, he'll be back in a few minutes. I'm such an idiot for yelling at him like that, I know he's sensitive and he was just trying to help and make me feel better, and it definitely wasn't his fault. I have to tell him that when he gets back. He needs to know how much I love him, how sorry I am, that I'll never say anything that horrible to him again, that he's my world and he's never been in the way, he never ever will be. But minutes turn into hours, hours into the next day, and that into the next week, and he's still not back. What have I done?_

I've asked everyone. No one's seen him, but we've all tried to contact him at least twice each, and he's just not answering anything. He's not in his apartment or anyone else's and I get the horrible feeling he's left Paris, left France, or something worse…

I walk around Paris every night, just hoping to get a glimpse of where he might be – checking his apartment, the Musain and the Corinth, even some of the old dens and hide-outs of Patron-Minette in my desperation, but I just can't find him anywhere. I'm walking home when I see him. He's over the Seine. Right on the edge of the bridge. I think he's going to… no. NO!

"Grantaire!"


	14. Chapter 14

_**Grantaire's POV**_

Notes. That's what people do, right? Yes. People leave notes. Always. I should too, so that people understand why I did it, only I've got no paper. So I'm going to have to improvise.

What do people put on these notes? Is it like a will, with money going to a son and car going to great-aunt Sylie and apartment going to the next-door neighbour? Or is it just a simple _Sorry, I ended it_? I decide that it's whatever I want it to be and take a deep breath.

"Hello. You have reached the voicemail service of Stéphane Feuilly. The person you are calling is unavailable right now. Please leave a message after the tone."

"Stéphane, hi, it's Raoul." My voice is shaking. "I'm sorry I've been avoiding you lately. You might have to get Enjolras to explain, if he hasn't already. I'm sure he'll be happy to oblige. I… I'm not going to see you again. It's complicated… well, it's not really, but I'm not going to explain it. I just wanted to say a few things before I… go.

"I'm sorry for making fun of you when we were younger. You didn't deserve it. You were great, Stéphane, you really were, and I loved the swans. They were always so beautiful. I should have listened to you, got myself off the streets sooner, you know, instead of taking the money. It might have been a better idea. I probably wouldn't be making this call if I had. It's funny, how everything adds up at the end. Me and Enjolras… it didn't work out. I lived for him, Stéphane. He was my life, and without him… there's just nothing left for me here, so it's goodbye. This is my note. I hope you have a good life, Feuilly. Thanks for everything. Really. Sorry for being in the way. I know I annoyed you out of your mind, but… you guys have been awesome. Tell the others for me. And one more thing – look after Enjolras for me. Thanks. Bye." I hang up before I start sobbing incoherently down the phone. Feuilly doesn't need my self-pity. Or my note, for that matter, but someone needs to know what happened. The tears are falling, and so shall I.

"Grantaire!" it's… it's Enjolras. "Grantaire, what are you doing?!" he's instantly at my side, his face red from crying and running and yelling and lack of sleep.

"I'd of thought this would be _elementary_, my dear Watson," I spit, knowing that the bitter humour will hurt him, because I'm quite obviously the Sherlock in this situation.

"Grantaire, don't do this! Please! I didn't mean it, I didn't mean any of it, I was just stressed. I love you, Raoul, you're my world, I love you more than anything on this stupid planet and I never told you and I know I should have told you and I'm so sorry, it's all my fault and, _please_, just come home, Raoul."

"You taught me something, Frederic," I tell him, looking down on him as if he's not worthy to look me in the eye, which, my heart tells me, is the stupidest thing because he's so worthy, so much _more _worthy of everything than me. "I always had suspicions of being that odd one out, that I just didn't belong anywhere, and you proved that to me. I want to thank you for that. You showed me what I needed to see. I was dreaming, and now I'm awake and smelling the bacon, and the world's not as accepting as it makes out to be. And neither are you. Sorry for being such a burden all this time. Sorry for being annoying and being in the way. I love you, Frederic, and you love me. Just with that truly _fake_ love. Don't forget that I love you. Please. Goodbye, Enjolras."

The last thing I hear is Enjolras yelling my name in despair, the tone of voice that not even the best actors can fake. Enjolras is a terrible actor. And then I realise my horrible mistake. Why did I not see it as just _him_? He still loves me. He still


	15. Epilogue

_**Combeferre's POV**_

I don't like cemeteries. I _hate_ them. I suppose I never had any reason to enter one, and the silly, childish superstition of ghosts fills my mind. Ghosts and zombies and vampires and _darkness_ and it's all completely irrational. Grantaire would mock me at this, waving his arms around and saying it was the Vashta Nerada and I had two shadows and I was sounding a little repetitive, at which point Enjolras would snap at him to shut up because he was scaring Jehan, who was absolutely _terrified_ of the Vashta Nerada episodes, and hadn't been into a dark library since. Grantaire always loved Doctor Who really.

The thought brings me to the verge of tears and I take a moment to compose myself, finding that I miss him more than ever. I didn't like him very much, sure, but I didn't hate his guts as much as I maybe made out to.

I carry a painting under my arm. I've had it waterproofed so that it can always be there and never get old or ruined; it can always be his. It's the only painting he ever made vaguely public, the only one anyone ever saw. Sunflowers. I've heard him talk about them, like he knew their thoughts and feelings, like he had a connection with them, like they were one and the same. Reaching out to the sun, reaching out to Apollo.

It's not right. It's just too surreal, too horrible for my mind to comprehend. This should _not_ be his gravestone. Maybe he threw someone over the bridge to be confirmed as him, in some mad Sherlock Holmes stunt. But I know that's completely impossible. Enjolras talked to him, saw him jump. They never found the body, and Enjolras is so sure he's still alive somewhere, that he's coming home. We argue about it a lot, and I hate it when we argue, but I don't want to see him fall further when Grantaire doesn't come home.

I never did like him that much – I could never trust anyone even vaguely involved with Patron-Minette after seeing Ponine's cuts and bruises – but I could never wish this upon him. The worst part is that it was all just a stupid misunderstanding, he was going to propose, he was stressed… it should have been resolved with a hug and a kiss and an "I love you" and an "I'm sorry". But when these things don't end like that, they end in tears. And, on occasion, death.

RAOUL GRANTAIRE

1989 – 2013

BELOVED FRIEND

"Hey… R." Would he be okay with me using his nickname? It's not like I'd ever have accepted him calling me Nico or Ferre.

I never understood people talking to gravestones. It's not like the dead can hear you. But I get it now – when they're dead, you _need _them to hear. Besides, it's more logical than the dead reading your mind.

"We miss you, Grantaire. We all do. Even me. You never where that bad, R, you need to know that. I just didn't trust you. I had the horrible feeling you'd hurt Enjolras. He's a brother to me, R, and I didn't want to see him get hurt. I guess I almost started liking you when he got distracted in meetings. I know I acted like it annoyed me out of my mind, but I'd never seen him so happy. He loved you so much, R, you could see it in his eyes, in everything he did. He was just stressed. I'd tell you why, but… it's probably his responsibility.

"He's not been himself, R. He hardly ever sleeps, and when he does he wakes up screaming your name. And he won't touch any kind of food except soup, but he says it's nothing compared to yours. He really hates himself, Grantaire, says he'd kill himself but you'd still hate him, and he'd never get to tell you he was sorry, because you'd be in heaven and he'd be in hell. He says he's already in hell, though, without you, but real hell would be worse, because you'd always be just out of reach and it would hurt more. He needs you, R. He's fallen apart and none of us could stop it and…" I choke back a sob. "We all need you, R, or we're just going to lose it.

"I… I'm sorry I've been so unkind to you. I never hated you as much as I tried to show. You really are a great guy. Sorry. Were."

_**No one's POV**_

"You're sure you remember nothing but faces, no names, ages, nothing at all?"

"No."

"What's this?"

"What?"

"Is it… origami?"

"Oh, _that_? It's just a swan."

**Hey, lovely readers! Just to say thanks to everyone who read this fic, and especially to thecoloursoftheworld who's honestly such a nice person and has followed the fic from the beginning. **** There is going to be a sequel! It's in progress, and it should be up soon. Thanks again everyone. You're awesome!**


End file.
